


wanderings of a delirious man

by Angyie



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Depression, Dissociation, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rhea is her own warning tbh but it's subtle enough, Seteth lovemail 2k20, Worldbuilding, but like hardcore dissociation, in which I try to make sense of the background lore and the children of the goddess lore, mostly accidental but you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:22:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23336074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angyie/pseuds/Angyie
Summary: Flayn sleeps, for a long, long time, across the centuries. Seteth waits for her to wake up. There is a little more to it than that, however.The legends about the Saints, Seteth could tell you, are not exactly accurate. Cichol's so called Holy Pilgrimage after the final battle of the War of Heroes was not that brave and noble of a prowess.Or, Cichol sets out on a journey and forgets a dozen of lifetimes, in a desperate search for the family he lost.
Relationships: Flayn & Seteth (Fire Emblem), Indech & Seteth (Fire Emblem), Macuil & Seteth (Fire Emblem), Rhea & Seteth (Fire Emblem)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 88





	wanderings of a delirious man

**Author's Note:**

> There aren't many Seteth & Flayn fics out there so consider that my addition to the small pile! I absolutely fell in love with their father-daughter bond and so that's what came out of it, a 9k fic that I once again wrote in like two days. Why am I like this. I fucking love Seteth my dudes, you have no idea. This is also my attempt at trying to make sense of his character with the background lore and Rhea? Because boy, do I love 3H's inconsistencies.
> 
> Anyway! Enjoy your stay, I hope it's enjoyable~ mind the warnings, it's not exactly full on triggering I do not believe so, but there is a severe case of dissociation and the great coping mechanism of "I ignore that I have problems", my personal favorite ahem
> 
> One last thing, English is absolutely not my first language so there may be some mistakes here and there as well as heavy grammar or wording. That said, a big thanks to [green_piggy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_piggy/pseuds/green_piggy) who betas my stuff, go check out their stuff if you like Claude!

_“Sing me a song of the world,_

_And gather us all around the fireplace._

_A song of hardships and dull downpours,_

_A song of lost treasures and faraway shores._

_Sing me a song of the world,_

_For all I can last see is your embrace.”_

.

His brothers find him - find what’s left of him. He can hear their cries somewhere, amidst the sudden silence that befalls the ravaged plains, but maybe, if he tries to lose himself a little bit more, he thinks he can hear the waves on the shore. Perhaps it is _their_ laughter. It is hard to tell which is which; he never managed to make the difference. It is all the same to him. Their joy is one that spreads to his heart and melts the coldness of the world, just like the grains of sand that twist their way beneath the soles of his feet and the water that comes and goes, tickling his skin.

Everywhere, the sea is around him and now, he wants nothing more than to drown.

To let it happen would be oh so easy. To let himself drift away until the abyss takes him for one of its own, far, far away from the light of the surface, until he can let go of the weight in his arms.

The light persists still, and he blinks. Once, twice, slowly as if learning how to function. The rays of the sun are a fiery orange piercing the dusty clouds, and--

“Cichol!”

It is an echo in his mind, but as his name surely fuses itself to become only sound, he can feel the seashore drifting away, further and further - _no!_ \- and he wants so badly to go _there_ , leave this realm, this reality, _leave him be!_

“Brother, I beg you…”

Later, he will put together the broken pieces of his mind and realize that he had been kneeling in the blood soaked mud, limbs numb to any deep cuts over his skin, his face raised towards the sky in an empty plea to Sothis to go back to what once was or to end it. His mind, lost to time and reason.

His arms, full of the dead, heavy weight of his daughter.

.

“That’s quite enough, Cethleann, please behave yourself,” he sighs for what feels like the hundredth time of the day.

There is a whine as she tugs on his sleeve, a teary pout on her face. “But Father--”

“Come on now, dear,” Aífe, his dear love, says. For a moment, as he looks up to her picking up Cethleann against her chest, he forgets everything and only sees her. “Look at his red cheeks, you’re embarrassing him in front of everyone.”

“I am not-- Please do not indulge her like that,” he sighs and frowns. (He does not pout. Cethleann borrowed that from her mother, not him.)

A boisterous yet sharp and sagacious laugh sprouts from the silver throne around which they gather. It looks like it has been birthed from the earth itself: it is more colourful flowers and green grass than metal, and on it sits Sothis. Her gaze is benevolent and wise as she looks to all of her children, all huddled around her on the bed of fresh blossoms under the purest sky they have ever seen, to the point storms seem like a dream with no basis in reality. At her bare feet where she touches the ground, the cycle of life dies and begins anew as flowers grow from seemingly nothing, the biggest and most exquisite of the entire field, until they wither and fall to dust, only to birth again under a new life. All under a few minutes.

She knows all, the knowledge in her eyes is endless, but it holds a hint of mischievousness and Cichol can sense himself becoming the target this time.

“Listen to your child, Cichol. She knows best, doesn’t she?” She laughs once more, teasing, and their family chuckles back.

“Mother,” he tries to protest. Although they share blood, she is not his mother, not exactly, but she is the mother of all, and they are her children more than most on this land. “Do not listen to her. I do not know why that idea came to her head.”

“He’s lying!” Tiny, little Cethleann perks up from her mother’s lap and almost trips in her hurry to stand up on legs that do not hold her weight very well yet, as she wants her voice to be heard by the assembly - and there goes one more of Cichol’s skipped heartbeats. “Father sings to me all the time! His voice is so nice and he never says no to me, and he tells the best stories when I can’t sleep and--”

“Cethleann,” Cichol coughs and he swears his cheeks are about to explode. Next to him, Indech slaps his back with an open palm, his hilarity way too close to his ears for his liking.

“Macuil, can you believe it? Our baby brother _sings_ now!”

The only response is a thoughtful hum, although across from them, Macuil rests his chin on his hand and smiles the way he always does. Cichol knows it does not bode well for his future. His dear love Aífe is of no help. She puts their daughter’s ruffled hair back into a semblance of harmony behind her pointed ears and tries to hide her grin behind her head.

“What’s so funny, Uncle Macuil?” Cethleann asks with the curiosity of a child that does not yet really understand the world of adults - and when Macuil winks at her and leans forward as if to share a secret, Cichol has already declared in his mind that it is _quite enough_.

“Now now,” Sothis’s voice has a certain authority to it despite its softness and love, and they all converge back towards her like a moth to the light. “Let’s not tease him into oblivion, shall we?” She leans forward and kisses Seiros’s forehead as her daughter lies against her mother’s legs.

“That being said,” the Goddess continues, “I am curious myself, and quite jealous of my granddaughter.”

Her jewelry tied around her wrists and limbs and neck chimes like a beautiful melody as she straightens herself, awakening her attention to him, waiting. Sothis’ eyes squint slightly when she smiles her affection to them, to him.

“Will you not bless my gardens with your gift, Cichol?”

The children of the Goddess lie at her feet, basked in light in a neverending field of nature and blossoms. They laugh and swim in time itself as if it is an era of glory and heavens that is never meant to end, and for this moment, they all look to him. Silence falls on the garden.

He can feel his Mother’s gaze, Seiros’ expectations and compassion. He can feel his brothers’ curiosity and a mix of teasing and reassurance that is a secret only known to siblings. But most of all, he can feel Aífe’s adoration and their daughter looks at him like he holds the treasures of the worlds.

So, Cichol clears his throat and weaves the notes of a story for his beloved family.

.

_Once upon a time…_

.

He rides into battle because Seiros asked - _begged_ \- him to, and without Sothis to guide them, he is not sure what to do.

In fact, he did know. All he wanted was to run, far, far away from the lands of mankind before the irreversible happened. All he wanted was to take away his two most treasured possessions and shield them from any harm. Cichol was prepared to be branded a coward for his beloved wife and cherished daughter to survive without a shred of their blood spilled. He could forgive himself for running away - or at least that’s what he liked to convince himself with - but he could not forgive himself if any harm befell them.

But, speculations about their future together and what he was or not willing to do to himself for their sake were cut short, because Aífe wielded her weapon at the ready and Cethleann’s grip around her staff was determined to defend their kin in the name of their lost ancestor.

Cichol follows the two women of his life then, and does not forgive himself for his treacherous and cowardly thoughts anyway.

Or for anything else that does happen, for that matter.

He knows, in fact, the moment it happens, that it is too late. For a split second, in the mid swing of his silver etched lance, he imagines a lifetime of memories. He sees himself centuries later, mourning her again and again until the grief rips what’s left of his heart into insignificant pieces. And just like that, as he turns around and the most inhuman sound bursts itself from his throat and chest, the love of his already long life falls, her axe falling from her hands, a sword halfway through her neck. The mud quiets any sound of the lifeless body hitting the earth, the same way it seems to quiet anything around the battlefield.

He takes a sharp breath and the sound of a beast births in his throat. Fangs, scales, wings, he discards his human form behind.

He never quite remembers what happens after that. Nor does he really try to.

He wakes up and the battle is over. His brothers surround him and if he had any hopes, the look in their eyes is enough to take them and crush them into ashes. The dirt and blood sticking to his face cracks when he finally moves under the dry trail of tears he hadn’t realized he shed.

Macuil’s hand is heavy on his shoulder, yet it is, he thinks, the only thing keeping him afloat. Indech kneels before him with a reverence he has never seen in him, and slowly extends his hand towards the limp form of his niece.

“Cichol, we have to…”

The world looks dull and colourless despite the sunset’s warm shades. He can feel it burning the core of his eyes because he has not moved his gaze from it in what feels like years, but he cannot stop pleading to the skies, to Sothis if she can hear him, to bring it all back, to make it _stop_.

Cichol looks down at the corpse of the second treasure he has lost to the madness of mankind in the same bloodied afternoon. His arms ache with the fatigue of the battle, and protest when he lifts her so little - still warm - body against his chest. He feels himself rock back and forth.

He rests his cheek against hers and kisses her forehead the same way he does when he puts her to sleep, and sings in the deafening silence.

His voice cracks with a sob, then two, then so many more, and uselessly can’t even carry out a tune to completion.

He never really thought himself to be a good singer.

.

_Once upon a time, there was a man..._

.

There are no cries for victory around them, although he has gathered enough to know Nemesis has fallen with his goons. He cannot find himself to care in the slightest, it was not his battle to begin with. It was Seiros’s fight, perhaps not at the beginning, but it is now her that can claim Nemesis’ head, and the blood in Zanado can now dry in peace. Cichol has never held any desire to bring vengeance, instead advising for a retreat to Sothis’s gardens and close its gates forever.

“We are the sole survivors, Seiros,” he remembers arguing. “We cannot lose one more or damnation will be our fate.”

“The slaughter of our people cannot go unpunished,” she had argued back, and silence was the only answer from the other last five children of the Goddess. Cichol could have sworn that a complete stranger stood before him, wearing the face of his sister.

He does not know where Aífe’s body lies, surely trampled by the battle and he struggles to remember her so perfect face under the sunlight as he imagines the worst. Everywhere around him is a sea of corpses of all the humans that were brought into this. His grip on Cethleann brings pain to his wrists.

_Is this what you wished for, Seiros?_

_“We cannot abandon our family now, Cichol,”_ Aífe had then said, always ready to fight for what was right, _so unlike him._

Seiros, Seiros who runs at them with evident relief. Seiros, covered in blood and holding a sword of bones against her breast, holding it the way Cichol first held Cethleann in the crook of his arm, and his brain fails to connect the dots between the woman before him and the sister he knew but a mere century ago.

Her steps falter in horror at the lifeless pair on the ground - _and really, who’s to tell who’s really dead between him and Cethleann_. She crashes on her knees and raises a trembling hand towards her niece. If Cichol hadn’t had his strength and will ripped away from him, he would have backed away, his daughter safe against him. Safe from all that he could not protect her from, and safe from mankind and Seiros’s madness.

“How could this happen..?”

 _It was_ you _._

“Cichol… She still lives.” And perhaps it should have occurred to him that Cethleann’s warmth hasn’t slipped away between his fingers yet.

“She still lives,” Seiros says louder, shaking him from his stupor of denial and - maybe he is going insane, but it really does feel like all the colors of the world suddenly rush back to him. As he looks down with a gasp, Cethleann’s head falls from his lap and his daughter lets out a heavy, sleepy sigh, just like she does when he finishes his lullaby every night.

His throat stings like he has screamed for days and days. It lets out one last heart wrenching cry of relief. He brings his hand to support the back of her head and nuzzles it against her temple.

He is not really aware of the conversation happening between his brothers and Seiros, until he hears, “she will need a long, long rest, but she will survive, with _our_ care.”

Cichol’s eyes widen.

That’s when he sees it.

There is a glimmer in Seiros’ eyes that awakens an instinctive deep terror in his guts, one that has slept in his heart ever since Sothis was slaughtered right in front of them. Nothing had never quite been the same, although he had not managed to pinpoint why.

It’s the flicker of hysteria in Seiros’ eyes when they slither their way to Cethleann. It’s telling him to _run_. So when no one is watching, Cichol stands up, the weight of his beloved daughter in his arms, and walks away.

.

_The underground they hid themselves in after Zanado is vast and empty; it makes the faraway sounds travel very far._

_“Useless, useless, useless,” are the screams he can barely hear and make sense of all the time, to the point he starts to think he’s just hallucinating angered ghosts of loved ones._

_“Dead remains won’t work. We,_ I _, need an alive vessel.” He hears one night and he cannot recognize the voice deformed with wrath and grief. His mind protects him and puts it aside; it is just a bad dream._

.

He walks. He walks away from Fódlan and its war consumed soils. He walks away from his home, although it was destroyed more than a century ago as the gardens of the Goddess burned and the canyon of Zanado filled with anguish and blood. He walks away from the last survivors of his kin, from their quest for a vengeance that he didn’t really feel, because it took away everything he had.

His legs cannot bear him any longer, but he walks nonetheless.

His hands never falter, not even a shake, because they carry the most precious thing he has left.

He walks for a long, long time until he forgets why he is even walking in the first place. He walks until his already worn out boots lose their seams and collapse. He walks until the rocks and the earth break his skin and he is leaving a trail of blood with each footstep.

He walks until the battlefields of mud become endless fields of grass and crops as the land is rebirthed. He walks until he finds the shores, but not even the salt of the sea makes him wince as it touches his wrecked body.

He does not stop, not even once.

.

Manuela walks between the rows of benches, chalk greasing her fingertips as she holds an open book in the other hand. Her head is high, barely looking at the lines she knows by heart for she has sung about them many times, and she asks: “Who here has studied enough last night and can tell me about Saint Cichol’s pilgrimage?”

A hand immediately rises, although it looks less excited about answering and rather apathetic.

“It is said that after the War of Heroes, the Four Saints left the land in the trusted hands of the Ten Elites and went on to bless other continents with their light and powers,” Linhardt answers. “Although Seiros loved Fódlan with all her heart and thus decided to defend its people until her last breath, the Saints each left for a different part of the world. Macuil retreated to the deserts of the north, far from any land of the living, and some legends of the Sreng believe he brought them prosperity. The warrior Indech left for the bottom of the seas: some believe he is the one to bring us the gift of water and its natural resources.”

“At least someone has opened a book,” Manuela nods. “Anyone else want to continue?”

This time, Ingrid is the one to raise her hand high, looking far more thrilled than her classmate.

“The last Saint, Cichol, went on to search for his daughter Cethleann, who disappeared during the final battle of the War of Heroes. According to the sacred texts, he went through several continents, and everywhere he went, the earth regrew from the destruction of the wars behind him, saving the many people he left in his trail. He never gave up for her in his quest: some scholars have attempted to establish the route he took and have called it Cichol’s Holy Pilgrimage.”

From the open doorway of the classroom, where he had been watching since the beginning of the seminar, Seteth lets out a quiet laugh.

“The wandering of a delirious man,” he whispers.

At his side, Flayn gently kicks his shin and beams. “The crusade of a devoted father,” she says instead with pride.

Seteth can feel the inquisitor look of that Riegan successor on them from the back rows of the benches, but he cannot bring himself to care, because the rest of the world matters little when Flayn stands next to him, warm, alive, and smiling.

. 

_Once upon a time, there was a man who lost everything until he lost his mind..._

.

“I don’t believe we should take what the texts and legends say literally. That’s a horribly sloppy method for those scholars if you ask me.”

“But the legends aren’t about the details, it’s about the poetry of the story, Linhardt!” Ashe joins in the current class debate that had sprouted out of nowhere.

“Perhaps, but how can we use them for any basis for history then? If they exist, there must be a reason and a truth in them somewhere, but how can we tell which one? If you think about it just for a minute, I can already point out at least three or four inconsistencies.”

“Oh, please, do enlighten us,” Claude laughs, a few rows away from the debate, his feet propped up on the wooden desk until Dimitri gently slaps him in the back of the head.

“Alright then, since you asked so nicely,” Linhardt clears his throat. (“Oh boy, here we go,” Caspar whispers next to him to no one in particular, although he blames Claude for this one.)

“The Saints are the basis of Fódlan’s history, yet we know practically nothing of them. Were they descendants of the Goddess or simple men blessed by her powers? Regardless, if you look at Saint Cichol’s itinerary, I doubt anyone could complete that in a lifetime, even a prolonged one, and even if they did not ever stop walking.”

“Well, maybe,” Claude answers back with a tone that crudely mimics Professor Hanneman’s lecturing tone, “you should consider the story within other parameters, like how the Saints surely did not answer to the same laws of men like we do.”

Linhardt does not even waver or acknowledge the bait. Instead, he seems to think for a moment. “Even with that, I wonder what kind of pilgrimage needs to take that long… What kind of peace of the mind requires so much to achieve? We need to try to establish how much time it _did_ take.”

From his spot, where he looks like he’s evaluating Professor Manuela’s teaching capabilities, Seteth watches the debate unfolds with disconnection, like his mind cannot connect the lines of the legends he’s heard so many times with his own life.

It is surreal, even after a thousand years behind him at least and many more he has lost count of, to be held an illustration of piousness and devotion, a holy figure blessed with powers beyond imagination to the point he reached the divine.

All he remembers in his struggles are his failures and helplessness, and his very, _very_ human feelings of love and desire to protect his family from the darkness of the world.

“How long do you think it took anyway?”

“In Dadga, their own folklore speaks of a traveler from the East that blessed the soils with crops and abundance. If it’s Saint Cichol, I wonder how he made it across. The archeology sure doesn’t show us anything about ships capable of crossing the seas at the estimated time of the War of Heroes.”

“Why would he look for Saint Cethleann that far away from the battle?”

He is vaguely aware of the side look of that Claude kid and his comment that is immediately put aside by Linhardt, Ingrid, Ashe and even a timidly participating Bernadetta as they all seem very engrossed in the tale; as for now, the “how” seems more important to identify than the “why”. Yet, instead, Seteth’s mind wanders, and tries to remember.

Ever at his side, Flayn gently grabs his wrist and squeezes, bringing him back to the present in the way only she knows how to. He smiles and nods, reassuring her as he slowly comes back to reality.

The truth is, he wishes he had the answers to all these questions himself. All he remembers are bits and pieces, and a fatigue that never ends as he walks and walks and _walks_ and he doesn’t even know where he is going, all he knows is that he has to _go_. He cannot bring himself to stop, because as soon as the thought brushes against his shattered mind, he is intensely aware of the dread in his stomach of what’s behind him and it urges him forward.

.

What Linhardt has gathered is not exactly false, but neither is it completely true.

He does find himself one day in what will become Dagda in the future, although it does not bear the name yet. It could have had a name already, but it is not one that matters nor one that he could even comprehend.

He does know, however, that in some remote village, the folklore tales and superstitions speak of a ghost. A man with no colors to his skin, except for the wear of his clothes from his long travels from the depths of the earth and the dull green of his hair. A ghost that erupts from the dark woods at night and walks with a purpose and a set path. A warning tale not to put one's self in the way or one could not see the sunrise, for the ghost looks for his long lost daughter. Let him pass in peace; and behind him the harvest will rise with majesty.

The sacred texts about his pilgrimage always seemed so foolish to him: if the earth grew back its sprouts after his footsteps, it was not of his doing. Mother’s nature simply took back what belonged to her truly and he had happened to flee the epicentre of the war. Alas, mankind has always been delusional.

(Cichol is, at his core, very human.)

Legends do have a basis and layer of truth, do they not?

.

_Once upon a time, there was a man whose most heartfelt desire was to rest._

.

His legs give out under him on a remote island amidst a lake.

He comes to awareness at once, giving him just enough time to twist his body so Cethleann’s sleeping body comes crashing onto him and not the ground. In panic, he jolts up, ignoring the protests of his body, until he realizes that she is unharmed. In fact, her injuries seem but like a dream he made up. Her skin is pristine, without any speck of dirt or blood. Beautiful and anew, like the day she was born.

He himself, he vaguely notes in a corner of his mind, is in bad shape. The soles of his feet seem lost to time just like his mind, and it is a struggle to breathe. The layer of dirt and sweat on his skin barely feels strange for a reason he can’t pinpoint, and his robes fly in different pieces in the wind.

Next to her, he looks like he took all the damage of the world and if he could, he would pride himself in that like any good shield does.

He sets her down on the vivid green grass with immense care, like his calloused hands would break her bones. With a sigh, Cichol kneels and looks up.

The island he finds himself on is nothing big. In a few glances, stretching a bit, he can almost see the shores. But the lake itself is gigantic. The lapping of the water is soothing, and it surrounds him entirely. Behind him, the end of the lake is barely discernible, but he thinks he can see a break in the chains of mountains that form a circle around the large body of water. If he looks forward, the grey mountains stand taller and sharper, as if to dare him to go further.

It feels like a clearing in a thick forest in every shape, and like the end of a journey he hadn’t realized he took.

One more step, though.

He picks her up once more, and wanders to the open grove in the center of the island. Just like it had been waiting for him, it leads him to a patch of grass and white blossoms. The few birds that had settled in their home do not even budge as he approaches and puts his daughter down in the most comfortable bed of flowers he has seen in a long time. He swears, when she touches the ground, more of them sprout from the earth, peaking through the thick strands of green hair that mix with the grass. (And since when did it get so long?)

A remnant of Sothis’ burned gardens.

He brushes away a few strands of hair from her serene face on her forehead and kisses her good night once more. He swears she almost answers back in a mumble like she always does.

Cichol sits on a log and sighs, letting the weariness of years and years wash over him. For the first time in forever, he closes his eyes and rests.

The birds sing; he does not join the chorus.

Still, he stands watch over her.

.

His slumber is cut short: a twig or two snap in his vicinity and as he feels more rested than he has ever been, he jumps to his feet, his fists closing on a lance that isn’t there.

“Woah, calm down, stranger! I mean no harm,” a voice says, but it does not slow down the pace of his heart. Instead, as he can now tell where it came from, he steps in between the intruder and Cethleann.

“I mean it,” the voice says once more as a man - old, palms opened and raised high, human. “I come with no ill intentions. You just look like a man who needs help.”

“Where am I?”

“Where did you hail from?” A rusty chuckle at his silence, then: “Well, you’re not there anymore.”

“That does not answer my question.”

“You’re at the end of the world, my friend,” the man exclaims while setting down on a log far enough from Cichol, like watching a predator. “That’s all you need to know. There ain’t nothing here, and no one knows what’s beyond the chain of mountains if you continue. At least no one came back from it, so I do not recommend you keep going.”

Any immediate threat does not seem like anything Cichol can’t handle with brute strength, so he forces his muscles to relax. Still, he stands ready, blocking the view of Cethleann from the man.

“But it seems like your journey has come to an end, hasn’t it?” the man goes on, leaning forward slightly as he looks at Cethleann between Cichol’s legs with a playful look in his eyes. As Cichol immediately readies himself to strike if needed, he snickers. “Come on, now, sit down, I have no interest in her. That is your daughter, is she not?”

Cichol’s tension fades away once more, as he looks behind him and he is submerged with adoration and concern upon looking at Cethleann. He sighs, then sorely sits back down.

“That she is, indeed.”

The man hums in what Cichol sees as understanding. “I can see why you wouldn’t stop then.”

“What do you mean?”

“You showed up to our village in the middle of the night. Scared the hell out of the watchers, and nothing they did would stop you, and you didn’t even pay attention to us. Figured it was a sign from the heavens and said that we ought to grant you safe passage and you went on, swallowed in the darkness of the night. Frankly, I mostly thought we’d find you dead somewhere between two trees, but here you are, on the other side of the lake.”

There is a sharp pain in his skull that lasts but for a second and leaves him dizzy, and he leans forward, pressing the palm of his hand against his skull. For the first time, he is aware that there is a huge gap of memories missing in his mind.

“Is that so…”

“You alright, son?”

He is not sure. He is not sure what he is, to be perfectly honest.

“Are you to stay here now?” The old man asks when it becomes clear he wasn’t about to answer, lost in thoughts.

“... I have nowhere else to go. My place in this world is with her.”

It’s a simple thing that he whispers, a simple thing that his voice breaks on, yet it seems enough for the man who nods sagely. He smiles, his eyes are warm, and Cichol thinks he forgets he lost everything to a war waged against humans.

“This is not a bad place to lay at rest, is it not?” The old man says as he gets up, getting back where he came from. Cichol follows him from the eye, dazzled and perplexed, until he spots a little makeshift raft drifting on the shore, battling its freedom against the sand.

“I’ll come back soon enough with something new for you to wear, something to cut that hair. That must not be comfortable. Perhaps some food, although you do not look like the kind of man who needs that sort of thing,” the old man says while looking at his pointed ears peeking through his now unbelievably long hair.

Cichol would argue that in fact he is mortal like the rest of men, but he thinks back to the time he lost to his shattered spirit. Perhaps he does not exactly answer to the same rules after all. Still.

“Wait,” he says abruptly as he gets up and follows. “What would you need in exchange?”

The man genuinely looks surprised for the first time ever since he met the closest thing there is to a ghost clinging to the last shreds of life and hope. But like he seems to do with everything, he laughs and brushes it off.

“Why would I need something? You’re the one who looks like they need help.”

He seems to ponder on things for a moment, the rope of his raft ready in his grasp.

“Tell you what. Trade my hospitality for a good story. You seem like you’ve seen enough to have a few good ones. The children of our village won’t stop nagging me to come here anyway.”

Cichol chuckles. It feels unbelievably good to laugh, as if the chains around his heart just snapped and he can finally _breathe_ without a weight.

“You’re in luck, then. I happen to be a little versed in storytelling.”

The man comes back again and again, until the first weeks blur together into one time without a split to be made. Cichol stands watch, diligent under the moon, sun, stars and rain alike. The island is small of course, so it is a fitting trial of patience for a failure of a father and husband, he thinks. He sits down on a cut trunk or a log or the sand, cross legged, closes his eyes and listens to the world around him. The sound of the calm waters and the life thriving around him like the world never stopped like it did in his mind.

Cethleann’s familiar sleeping breaths an anchoring sound in this vast, vast world.

To the side, he takes a big enough stone and embellishes it with the most verdant green leaves he can find, topped with a dark crimson rose when the spring comes. He likes to sit where he can watch the two shrines that adorn the island, one for each of his girls.

Every once in a while, the man brings a few children that all look like they are of Cethleann’s age or younger. They ask questions at first, who is the girl, why won’t she wake up, can we play with her one day, until the elder of the village senses the increasing tension in Cichol and ushers them away for him to bring back his composure. Then, at sunset, they all gather in a circle and with their eyes widened with interest, Cichol tells them a story, a fairy tale, anything that he has already said for Cethleann when she begged for a new one.

It brings sorrow that weighs heavily on his heart with a strain, as his mind loses itself in memories of a time long bygone.

It brings relief too, somewhat, to soothe all those children to sleep until the parents, with a look he knows all too well, thank him and bring them back to their home.

As the days pass, the old man never comes back, only for a new generation of children to come listen to him, then another, then another. He manages to ignore the envy that takes hold of him, until he repeats his wife’s words to him like a mantra: _“You were meant to be a father, always better than me at this.”_

(Without realizing, as he looks at those smiling children so innocent of the hardships of the divine and wars, he lets go of the hatred for mankind that built itself in him ever since they took everything away from him. He lets go of Seiros’s guidance after their mother’s passing.)

He hasn’t sung in a very long time, but he still thinks of new stories for them once he runs out of all the ones he has made for Cethleann.

.

_Once upon a time, there was a man who lived far too long, long enough to see the world end._

_Or perhaps it was his world that ended._

.

It lasts, for a while, until it doesn’t.

He wakes up one day, resting against the bark of a tree, immediately knowing something is wrong. He springs upwards, frantically looks for Cethleann - she hasn’t moved, hasn’t moved in so long, but she is still here, undisturbed.

A shadow sprouts from behind another tree, on the other side of the clearing.

It’s purely out of instinct, really. He readies himself for scales to grow out of the pores of his skin, the burn in his bones and the sharp agony in his fangs as they grow longer and--

Nothing happens, except for the miserable smile that Macuil gives him.

“You’ve lost it too, then. I think the battle might have been too much on Indech, you and I. Although it’s probably your little trek in your case.”

His dragon blood no longer boils in his veins, and it should have occurred to him earlier, really. One last connection to Mother, broken and lost.

“Peace, my brother,” Macuil says calmly when his nervousness doesn’t vanish. His furrowed brow is the only thing that shows emotion. Macuil has never been one to express much of his feelings, so much to the point that he is difficult to read.

“You’re a hard man to find, you know?” Macuil smirks ever so slightly. “Took me a while.”

“I don’t believe I left with a sign that I wanted to be found.”

“I don’t think you left with a sign that you were even aware you were leaving, Cichol,” Macuil immediately retorts with bitterness. One always loses in a battle of words and wits against him, so Cichol settles in silence.

Macuil seems to take that for a victory. He steps forward once, then twice, until he stops. For the first time, Cichol feels the slightest hint of sorrow and temper in his eyes, and it is enough to make his heart waver.

“You _left_ , brother. Left all of us, after the massacre of our entire family.”

“I couldn’t stay,” Cichol laments in the winds.

Macuil’s voice rises. Another thing he has never seen, even though it’s been a long, long time since he has seen any of his siblings. “We would have cared for her! But instead you decided to cross the entire world for ages, barely sane enough to keep her safe!”

“It _wasn’t_ safe with you!” Fury bursts out of his chest despite his best judgment and to his own surprise. And Macuil’s too, so it seems.

“Why not?” Cichol had always thought Macuil saw so much of the bigger picture than his heart laid elsewhere. He loved them, they always believed, but he was meant for something else, something bigger than them. How wrong had they been.

“Why couldn’t you trust us? Indech, you and I… It’s always been the three of us, even before Seiros came to beg us for help, even before Sothis herself came to reunite all of the ones who shared her blood. Indech and I never married, because we would have given anything to protect Cethleann, for _you_.”

Shame dwells in his chest. Rightful anger, for Cichol knows that Macuil and Indech hold a certain faith in Seiros that blinds them to the intense and sickening glimmer in her eyes that spreads to her mind. Most of all, it is regret, for something that he could not control, and for the cowardice that holds his heart prisoner.

Had he been the one to perish instead of his dearly beloved, none of this would have happened.

But ages stand before him and his brothers, lifetimes and lifetimes and all he can find himself to say is:

“...I’m sorry.”

Silence lasts for a while. Macuil’s face rests in acceptance, perhaps, it is hard to tell. He strides forward, kneels before the peaceful slumber of Cethleann and passes a knuckle gently across her cheeks.

“Hello, my niece, it has been quite a while.” He smiles to no one in particular.

They both settle, the conversation and argument ended for this time. Without moving from his place on the ground, Macuil contemplates the peaceful landscape, undisturbed by war, pain, divine powers. “It’s a nice place that you’ve chosen for her.” He softly smiles. “You’ve always had the eye and sensibility for that sort of thing.”

“Where are we, exactly?”

“You mean, you do not know?” Macuil looks up at him with genuine concern.

“... The last thing I remember before-- at some point during the battle, I remember Seiros near Cethleann. And the next thing I know, I am here.”

“Oh, my baby brother,” Macuil laments, passing a hand over his face and he suddenly looks like he is feeling all the thousand years they’ve been alive. “I couldn’t even tell you where we are. The edge of this reality, perhaps? It took me so long to find you, _so_ long. I found myself lost countless times before finding this place. I do not even believe Mother herself came this far.”

“... How long?”

“Far too long. It’s been… centuries since you’ve left. So many of them.”

Cichol sighs, and the knowledge of time nests itself on the back of his head. Everything feels heavier. “I have lost track of time in this haven. Perhaps it has been a century since I’ve found shelter? I could not tell you. How did you find me?” He asks, the familiar gentleness going back and forth between them, as he sits down next to his brother.

“Sheer luck, perhaps. Or fate. Perhaps Mother guided me here. I followed a few trails for a while until they became a dead end. I went to the East and then North even, where there were rumours floating around. I found Indech there again, until I decided to go West. But already, it had gone cold with time. The only thing left in your path were ghost stories and tales the humans use to put their children to sleep.”

Cichol swallowed the dread creeping back up in his throat.

“What kind of stories?”

Macuil huffs, without humour. “Stories of wandering spirits, mostly. People who have seen you and are too afraid to approach you. Stories of a man without any light in his eyes and a heavy burden in his hands. Others, stories of a few who lost their lives to his wrath when they got too close to the bundle of treasure in his arms.” The last one is said as he looks right in his eyes.

.

Seteth is not aware of all the customs in Duscur, and for reasons that pertain to an entirely different story, Dedue does not add to the class debate about Duscur’s twin deities that perpetuate the cycle of life and destruction. A father chasing the ghost of his daughter each time a catastrophe occurs until he brings her back, whatever the price. One brings life, the other rampage, but no one really knows which is which.

It doesn’t really matter though, all that matters is the unbreaking bond they share and how one cannot live without the other.

They are neither benevolent nor malicious, simply a blessing of protection and certainty. 

.

It turns out Macuil came with a teleportation spell ready and enough arguments to leave Cichol unable to revert the situation to his advantage.

“I will not force you. But you can wait a thousand years and maybe more here, or perhaps I can bring you back to Seiros. She will help her.”

Fódlan looks nothing like he remembers. Mankind has thrived once again, and he wonders how much he had missed. But Cethleann, tranquility in his arms, is more important. Near the canyon of Zanado where it all began or ended, looms a building of stones and tombs. The monastery feels familiar despite the fact that he sees it for the first time.

It is easy to guess it is all Seiros’s doing, as she greets him like the last time she has seen him was yesterday, all but with a knowledge in his eyes that leaves him uneasy.

“Welcome back to your family, Cichol.”

He nods sternly. There were more important things first.

“Heal her or I shall not stay.”

Seiros - or as he will learn later, Rhea - nods. “Of course. I have prepared this for so long, Cichol. Please, do not doubt us ever again. We protect each other.”

Indech comes running with tears of relief; the crushing hug the warrior gives Cichol almost breaks him as well. It has been a long time since he was the youngest one.

He lies down Cethleann on a warm bed, yet does not take a step back. Seiros does not seem to mind as she approaches calmly. Slowly, she bends forward with a grace he does not remember her having, with a beauty that seems borrowed from someone else, and kisses Cethleann on the forehead. Warm light fills the room, and Cethleann’s breathing changes. He can _feel_ it. Much lighter than before.

“It will take more time and we will have to hide her from the world, but her awakening will be quicker than it was intended,” Seiros says as she stands up.

Cichol barely acknowledges her, for his instincts are so tuned to Cethleann’s needs that he can feel that Seiros did the right thing. He collapses to his knees and brings his daughter into his arms once more, letting out a shaking breath.

“See, Cichol. I would never harm her, or you. You are my precious family, after all,” she says like she knows exactly what went on in his mind. Although, he thinks, he sees regret and remorse.

He nods, and smiles for the first time since he took step inside the monastery. “I am indebted to you, Seiros. Forever.”

“Do not worry yourself too much with that. We shall all be reunited soon,” she says dreamingly like he hasn’t come back at all. He barely perceives the reason he left in the first place in the delusions hiding behind the sweet and pleasant curves of her voice.

But he has a debt to her now, and most of all, he refuses Cethleann to have a coward of a father that abandons his family.

.

He finds a deserted island on the outskirts of Fódlan. The wind blows and beats against his skin as the waves try to take him with them when he loses himself to the landscape, just for a bit.

Indech and Macuil never lose sight of him these days, to the point it feels a little bit suffocating.

“I can see you, you do know that?” he yells one time while walking to his destination. Macuil has long abandoned hiding a few miles behind, but Indech is extremely stubborn and for some reason thinks that Cichol can’t spot his large frame in the bushes.

“Let me have my own fun,” his older brother mumbles when he joins them.

“I can manage on my own, you know,” Cichol says.

“Nope,” both of them answer at once.

“You’re going to get lost again,” Macuil adds sternly.

“Or maybe travel half the planet without realizing,” Indech continues, and although it is said with a teasing smile, there is some harshness behind the words.

“I’m never going to live that down, will I?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I lost about eight centuries of annoying the shit out of you anyway, you’re not getting away that easily. Plus, Macuil prefers to ignore me so it’s more fun when it’s you.”

“Oh? How exhilarating for me then.” That has the merit of making Macuil crack a smile.

“So, where are we going?” Indech excitedly asks, wrapping both of his arms around their shoulders as they keep walking.

Cichol fakes a wince while Macuil chuckles fondly.

“Let him lead us, brother. We walk the same path now,” Macuil softly whispers with a dream-like gaze.

Walking doesn’t have to be such a lonely task, Cichol finds.

The island is bare of anything when he shows them, save for the melody of the waves, which is strangely serene. There, his mind slowly disconnects from their banter and he lets his two brothers bicker behind him. The line of the horizon is so far here, no grey mountains to form a metaphorical prison he was too afraid of getting out of.

“It’s a lovely place,” Macuil repeats, suddenly behind him. Indech immediately joins at his other side.

“She would have loved it, I’m sure.” 

Cichol hums without the heart into it. It is hard to tear his eyes away from the ocean here.

“Have you cried for her yet?” Indech asks softly, always the most sensible one.

It’s a simple question, really, but it all comes crashing down on him with the force of a sudden storm. His throat tightens and he swallows with difficulty. His sigh shakes - he nods, but the realisation that he actually hasn’t hits him at the same time. The wind seems to pick up, but it isn’t cold. More like comforting.

“You haven’t changed, baby brother,” Indech gravely says as he puts his elbow on his shoulder - he’s even _taller_ now - and pushes Cichol’s head against his chest. Macuil’s hand finds its way against his back, a reassuring weight while his chest constricts against his ribcage.

“You’ve been a father for so long you forgot you used to be a husband. Let it go, just for a while.”

So he does.

With only the strength of their arms, on this very island they build a shrine and a mausoleum, despite Cichol’s initial protests that it should be his burden and his alone.

(“It’s the least we can do. We should have been there for you three.”)

He lets the nearby inhabitants claim it until it becomes a sacred ground for Rhea’s church. It doesn’t really matter to him, he knows what it stands for. The layout of the stones on the beach is like a small amphitheater for numerous people that are no longer here to listen to a story unfolding. But it is the twin stone altars that could be mistaken for beds that especially puzzle the mortals; a part of him even thinks that Aífe would have enjoyed the benign drop of confusion and chaos she spread even in death.

.

_“Father… Father? Are you alright? What happened?”_

_“So much, my dear. So much.”_

.

“Hey, Mister Cichol, why don’t the people in your stories ever have names?”

“Don’t be so rude! Please, excuse her…”

“I don’t mind, it’s alright.”

“Are you not good with names? Can’t you come up with any?”

“Ah, well… It is not so simple. I do know many names, of course. However… Every time, my daughter insisted on creating the names. It was her way of participating in the story, you see.”

“We should wait for her to wake up then. She’ll have names to give to your new stories!”

“... That I’m sure, yes. That does sound lovely…”

“Mister Cichol… Why don’t you use your favorite names she’s invented in the meantime?”

“Alright, alright, settle down now. I will tell you the story of Flayn and Seteth…”

.

Seteth may have lost count of the years he’s lived. He may have lost sight of his brothers who could not pretend any longer that they were a harmonious family as the long forgotten memories of the Red Canyon hang over their heads.

He also knows he put too much faith in the regrets he saw in Rhea and how she never looked at Flayn the way she did that day a thousand years ago again. Hope for redemption and for the time of a family long gone blinded him to her doings behind their backs.

But Seteth knows that perhaps he is not the terrible person he thought he was, for he knows that it is not his debt to Rhea that makes him stay until her very end, but the thought of his wife and daughter and many more family members lost to war and time. Love for one’s family is no debt, he finds out. He wishes he could have shown her the world of humanity is not as bad as they initially thought, and he tearfully puts Rhea to her final slumber with acceptance.

_Join our Mother before me, my sister._

.

He loves his Mother dearly, despite the fact that it is a title with no basis on direct bloodlines. She is a mother to him all the same, yet he is always uneasy to find himself alone with her in her domains. Sothis is nothing but benevolence, so he shouldn’t be, but nervousness always takes control of him.

She seems oblivious to it, or perhaps she just ignores it. Although, knowing her, maybe it is simply her way of teasing him.

“Hold these for me, would you?” she asks him as she plucks the most gorgeous flowers out of the verdant bushes and pushes an entire bouquet in his arms. She seems to think for a moment, picks up an immaculate white one and without a warning, shoves it in his hair behind his ear.

“There, better. Don’t look so stern, Cichol. Your smile is too lovely for that.”

“Ah, Mother, please, don’t--”

“Tease you, I know. You make it so easy though!” She laughs like Cethleann, so much that sometimes it is hard to remember the guidance of a parent she offers them.

As quickly as it came, her laughter dies down and the Goddess looks pensive, humming to herself as she contemplates her havens.

“Your faith does not lie in me.”

It catches him off guard, for sure. It is not a question, and it sounds like an accusation that fills him with so much shame he wonders if this is how Cethleann feels when he scolds her. Although, it is a different type of shame, one that almost feels like Sothis considers him a betrayer.

“Mother, I… What do you mean, of course I--”

“Good.”

She turns around to face him. For the second time in a few seconds, she makes his heart skip a few beats. Her face is adorned with a fond grin.

“Your faith lies in your wife and daughter, I can tell. Do not let that loyalty falter, Cichol. Now I know that, whatever happens, I can rest easy, because one of my children will always know that what he has is more important than what he lost.”

.

“Are you ready, Father?”

“Flayn…”

“Come on now, I don’t think anyone believes in that farce anymore after those five years. Not to mention, most dangers have passed. And you will protect me, alongside all of my new friends, will you not?”

“... Fine. You win.”

Flayn - Cethleann - the most important thing in his world, laughs and jumps on her feet. In her hands, a little bundle is swaying back and forth.

“We’ll come back, right? To the monastery?”

“Of course. We have a home here.”

“Alright then. Then, let us be off, Father,” Flayn says as her warm hand grasps his own and drags him towards the gates of Garreg Mach. “I’ve always wanted to see the world and to see your stories for real.”

Seteth lets himself be led. He sings a little tune on their way out, one that pleases Flayn and gives him the reward of her most ardent smile. 

_Once upon a time there was a man who set out on a journey twice,_

_the first one is recorded in history, yet only the second one is worth remembering._

**Author's Note:**

> and that's it folks~ I hope you enjoyed it, I would be delighted to hear about your thoughts and if you did! Thanks for any kudos or comments you guys will leave, it's greatly appreciated.
> 
> By the way, Aífe is a warrior in Irish legends; in some versions, she is also a sorceress or druid who trains noblemen to the arts of war and love. Because I grew really fucking tired of calling her “seteth’s wife”, so now she has a goddamn name intsys  
> I'm feeling like digging a little bit more on the saint trio tbh. I wish the dlc had given us more on that lore but Alas.
> 
> you can also find me on twitter [@vibraniiumstars](https://twitter.com/vibraniiumstars)!


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